


Time Makes You Bolder: Thirteen Moments with the Moms

by speakpirate



Series: Thirteen Things [8]
Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-03
Updated: 2017-07-03
Packaged: 2018-11-22 18:10:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11385606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakpirate/pseuds/speakpirate
Summary: The PLL moms through the years.





	Time Makes You Bolder: Thirteen Moments with the Moms

**Author's Note:**

> The Thirteen Things series has now gone pretty AU since the conclusion of the show. Which is okay by me.

I. 

Mother’s Day was the one holiday that Peter never forgot, no matter how heavy his caseload was. Every year, Veronica would receive an elaborate floral arrangement. Red and white roses. A card in the florist’s loopy handwriting. 

The flowers were always tasteful. Expensive.

In the early days, when she was filing motions and bouncing Melissa in her baby swing, she smiled at the lovely gesture. Even if she didn’t especially like roses.

One Saturday, when Melissa was four years old, she saw the neighbor boy helping his mother digging a hole in their yard. 

Veronica frowned. It was dangerously close to the property line.

The boy - Jackson? Mason? - looked up. She felt her heart nearly stop.

He had Peter’s eyes.

And his mother was planting a rose bush.

She didn’t leave.

She came to see the roses as a symbol of their life together. 

Fleeting beauty. Enduring thorns.

The first Mother’s Day after Spencer was born, she cradled the baby and wrinkled her nose at the flowers. Tawdry. Gothic.

The year she found the lump in her breast, she looked at the flowers and thought of Lancaster and York. Thirty years of drawn swords. Bastard feudalism. 

She didn’t die.

Jessica DiLaurentis did.

Sometimes she would catch Peter sitting at the kitchen counter, staring out at the backyard. 

Now that he’s gone, too, she finds she misses the roses.

She has Spencer ask Alison and Emily for a cutting from the bush in their yard.

They spend Mother’s Day transplanting it next to the azalea patch, wrestling with peat moss and potting soil and a mason jar. 

Neither of them thought to wear gloves. The blood from their scratched up palms leaves red streaks in the dirt.

“My hands are never going to come clean,” Veronica says, trying to rub the dirt off on her gardening smock.

Spencer looks at her, her dark eyes serious. She looks at Veronica, and at the planting they’ve spent all afternoon tending.

“You did good,” Spencer says.

Veronica puts an arm around Spencer’s shoulder. “We did.”

\---------------

II.

For the first year after Peter Hastings dies, Pam Fields sends Veronica a casserole every Sunday.

Sometimes she takes them herself, dropping in for a quick glass of wine. Or she asks Emily or Ali to drop it off. It’s the thought that counts. And the calories.

She remembers those terrible months after Wayne passed. 

She got dressed every day. Flipped the light switches on when it got dark. Turned the furnace on when it got cold. Made at least a thousand cups of tea that went cold on the counter while she cried quietly in the silence of the house.

Everyone was so full of sympathy. Mike Montgomery mowed the lawn all summer. One of the guys she used to work with at the station made a call, gots the road crews to plow and salt her driveway all winter long. In the spring, some workers from Ben Coogan’s maintenance company turned up to clean her gutters free of charge. She saw Barry Maple outside one afternoon, watched as he hammered the loose porch railing back into place. Nick McCullers and some boys from his church raked up all her leaves.

“They’re just trying to help,” Emily had said, on the phone from California. She sounded busy. Distracted. Probably studying too hard.

“It makes me feel helpless,” Pam said, exasperated. “I’m used to doing for myself.”

She sat in a lawn chair and watched the Memorial Day Parade go by.

Ashley Marin dragged her out to a catered barbecue in the Radley parking lot for the 4th of July. She sat at a picnic table, moving potato salad around with her fork.

It was years ago, but the memory still feels fresh and raw when she thinks about it.

These days, she mows the lawn herself, then goes inside to find Barry fixing the dishwasher or mixing up a batch of sweet tea.

He still has his condo across town, but he has a toothbrush here and his wardrobe has been migrating slowly, week to week.

They’re enthusiastic babysiters. They take little Emma apple picking at the Campbell farm one Saturday. Barry lifts her up on his broad shoulders so she can pick the ones on the highest branches. The next day he bakes two heavenly smelling pies.

He whistles as he takes them out of the oven, his big hands crammed into the oven mitts Emily made in third grade.

“One for us,” he says. “One for your friend Mrs. Hastings.”

This is the moment Pam realizes she’s in love. 

\--------------------------------------- 

III.

Mary Drake never stays in one place for too long. She likes staying off the grid. A yurt on the outskirts of Marrakesh. A small rice farm in the Mekong Delta. 

She makes her way back to Rosewood for special occasions. She likes to keep up.. Disguising herself as a caterer during Alison’s wedding reception. Standing across the street from the church during Peter’s funeral. She uses a stolen passport to sit three rows behind Jason on a flight from Brussels to Abidjan, tracing the lines of Peter and Jessica across his sleeping face.

She blends into the crowds in New York and Paris and DC. She’s good at making herself invisible, walking a few paces behind Spencer, tracking the shape of her shoulder, the graceful lines of her neck. 

Every now and then, Spencer turns around. Looks back, scanning the teeming sea of faces around her. Once, she pauses to stare into a shop window, and their eyes meet in the plate glass reflection. Spencer raises her hand in a half wave. Mary blows her daughter a kiss. A massive group of Irish rugby players barrel through the street between them, and by the time they pass, Spencer has moved on. 

One morning, Mary wakes up to the sound of squawking. She’s been staying on a houseboat in Ushuaia, and when she goes on deck to investigate, she find a crate with a parrot inside. She feeds it sunflower seeds and listens closely as it trills a sequence of notes. Not a phone number. A longitude and latitude. She plots it on the map. A hot springs in Ittoqqoroormiit. 

The wind whips away the tears on her cheeks. 

Her heart soars like the parrot, flying off towards the mountains. 

Charlotte. 

She’s alive.

\--------------------------------------

IV.

Mike marries a lovely girl. Jasmine. A kindergarten teacher. She took a yoga class at his gym, and it was love at first pose.

They have Ella over for dinner twice a month. Sometimes Mike grills steaks on the patio while Jasmine and Ella drink wine and toss a salad together. Or Jasmine makes a big batch of gumbo while Mike and Ella throw together some corn bread. 

She watches the easy way they work together in the tiny kitchen. The way he laughs when she hip checks him. The way they toss cheese cubes at each others open mouths, biting them out of the air like playful seals. 

One night as she’s driving away, she sees them silhouetted in the warm light of the living room, slow dancing without music.

She heads over to the Radley for a drink. 

“No thanks to me,” she tells Ashley. “But at least one of my kids got it right.”

 

\-------------------------------

V.

“C’est ma fille,” Ashley Marin says, gesturing to Hanna’s face on the cover of _Paris Vogue._

The flight attendant nods politely and hands her a hot towel and another glass of wine.

“How was that?” she asks Veronica, seated in her first class pod across the aisle. “Did she understand me?”

“Your accent was good. But that’s the third time you’ve told her.”

“Well, I’m allowed to be excited,” Ashley grins, shaking the magazine in Veronica’s direction. “That’s my daughter!”

Veronica nods politely and drapes the hot towel over her face.

“C’est ma fille,” Ashley tells the driver, as he’s loading their bags into the trunk.

“Non,” he replies. “C’est ta soeur, Mademoiselle.”

“For heaven’s sake,” Veronica rolls her eyes. “Get in the car.”

“C’est ma fille,” she tells the bellhop as he escorts them up to their suite at the hotel.

“Oui, Madame?” He smiles. “Elle a ta beauté.” 

Veronica makes a noise that sounds a little like a snort. A dignified Parisian snort. Ashley can’t help it. After everything the girls have been through, Hanna’s finally doing it. She’s living her dream. She’s created the hottest new label in all of Europe. She’s living a big life and she’s doing it on her own terms. 

Ashley feels like her heart could actually burst with love and pride. And buttery croissants.

“C’est ma fille,” she murmurs to the sommelier at the restaurant where they’re meeting Hanna and Spencer for lunch. Hanna, naturally, is running late. Spencer, naturally, had already been waiting at the table for ten minutes when they arrived.

“Oui, Madame? You are la mere of la belle Hanna? We know her well! Her pretty face is surpassed only by her beautiful spirit!”

Ashley beams at him, noticing as she does so that Spencer is also smiling fondly at his words. She moved to Paris six months ago, is working as an attache at the embassy. She and Hanna are sharing an apartment. Having Spencer as Hanna’s roommate means that Ashley doesn’t have to worry about whether or not Hanna’s eating, Spencer will make sure she has non-sugary protein at least once a day. In New York, Hanna had to buy at least three new sets of dishes because the old ones kept growing a thick fuzzy mold after being left for weeks in the sink. With Spencer in Paris, Ashley doesn’t have to worry about the state of Hanna’s flatware. Or about Hanna staying out until 2am dancing on tables with male models. Hanna reported that the first week Spencer was there, they barely left the apartment. The girls must have had a lot of catching up to do.

Spencer seems a bit fidgety, making small talk with her mother about the latest political maneuverings at the Statehouse, a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt they’ve both read.

Then Hanna breezes in, a whirl of white blonde highlights and giant sunglasses. She hugs Ashley tightly and kisses Veronica on both cheeks. She slides into the chair next to Spencer and kisses her, too. On the mouth. For what clearly is not the first time. Or the second. Or the fifty-second.

Ashley drains her glass and Veronica pours her another.

Hanna and Spencer are still kissing.

Ashley arches her eyebrow at Veronica.

“C’est ma fille,” she says, raising her glass.

Veronica chuckles and they clink their glasses in a toast.

\-------------------

VI.

Pam and Emily power walk through the Rosewood Mall every Wednesday morning. They used to run, but Pam’s trying to slow down. She had a fall last winter, bad enough that she needed a partial hip replacement. 

Emily talks about the girls. Asks Pam for advice on how to set the right bed time, how to make the stew that Grandma Fields used to cook. Pam reminisces about when she and Wayne were newlyweds. Talks about moving from base to base when Emily was a baby and her father was rising through the ranks. 

They gossip lightly about Tom Marin, who showed up on Ashley’s doorstep begging her to take him back. About Mona’s latest appearance on Page Six.

Pam chats about Barry joining the church choir. Their plans to go on a cruise next summer. Emily admits that she’s worried about Aria, that she sometimes wishes Ezra could just be swallowed by a sinkhole or swept out to sea. Pam clucks her tongue sympathetically.

They vent about Kenneth DiLaurentis insisting he wants a relationship with his grandchildren. He hasn’t changed, still refuses to write ‘DiLaurentis Fields’ on the birthday cards he sends. Alison throws them in the trash unopened. Emily fishes them out and writes, “Return to Sender” on the envelopes.

Pam suggests the best perennials for spring planting. She doesn’t interfere, but she sometimes manages to work in a few pieces of wisdom about making your marriage work over the long haul. 

They walk five miles each week, side by side, perfectly in sync.

They have no secrets. 

\-------------------- 

VII.

Ella is teaching one of her all time favorite novels. _The Bridge of San Luis Rey._

“Why did the bridge fall?” she asks her students. No one raises their hand. She decides to pretend the question was rhetorical. “Brother Juniper feels sure it’s an act of God. But the church eventually burns his book as heresy. What does Wilder think? Why does the bridge fall?”

The room full of tenth graders stares at her. A few are taking notes. John Meyer is half asleep in the back row. A few of the girls are looking at their phones.

“The answer,” she continues. “Is frightening. Because there is no answer. The answer is we’ll never know. The answer is that you should not be texting in my class, Miss Hendricks.”

She takes the phone out of Becca’s hand to confiscate it until the end of the day.

That’s when she sees the shirtless picture of the girl’s tennis coach, his hand wrapped around something that is definitely _not_ his racket.

She falters for a moment before she picks up the lecture again. “Why did the bridge fall?”

Why did her daughter get kidnapped and locked in an underground bunker? What ill wind blew Ezra Fitz into all of their lives? Why did the bridge fall?

“Because the universe is terribly random. Because it is outside of our ability to control and our ability to understand.”

The bell rings and the students begin to shuffle out.

Becca hangs back, a frightened look on her face.

“Please,” she says. “It’s not what you think. We’re in love.”

Ella imagines being on the bridge at the moment the ropes snapped. 

She calls Detective Tanner to make a report.

\-----------------------------------

VIII.

Ashley runs down the hallway as fast as she can, Hanna’s screams echoing in her ears. She slides around the corner, her shoes skidding a little on the polished hospital floor.

The baby is three weeks early. Hanna went into labor in the middle of the White Party at Mona’s house in the Hamptons. 

Hanna’s hair is damp with sweat, and her knuckles are white as she clenches Spencer’s hand in a vice grip.

A doctor and two nurses are keeping an eye on her vitals, taking notes on her rate of dilation. 

“Mom,” Hanna says, hoarsely.

“It’s okay, honey,” Ashley says, reassuringly. “You’re doing great.”

“My water,” Hanna says, in between breathing exercises. “Broke on Matt Damon’s shoes.”

“Don’t worry” Spencer says, smoothing the hair off Hanna’s forehead. “We’ll send him new Italian loafers and a baby picture. He’ll be fine.”

“It’s time to start pushing,” one of the nurses announces. “Get ready.”

Hanna groans in pain as she bears down during the next contraction. Her nails are digging into Ashley’s arm. 

“Ice chips?” the other nurse offers, handing Hanna a paper cup.

Hanna’s face contorts with pain and rage. 

“You’ve got this honey,” Ashley says. “You know what to do.”

Hanna nods and hurls the cup as hard as she can across the room.

The baby crowns quickly. He’s out and wiped off and crying in Hanna’s arms moments later. Ashley and Spencer and Hanna are all crying, too, tears of happiness streaming down their faces as his perfect teensy hand blindly grasps his mother’s pinkie finger.

Forty-five minutes later, her new grandson is swaddled and fed and Spencer is watching him sleep in the hospital nursery. Hanna is eating ice cream and pudding and green jello all at once.

Ashley sits in a chair near the bed. “Did you tell them not to give you an epidural?” 

“They gave me one,” Hanna says, her mouth full. “I was screaming cause of this paper gown they made me wear. I look like a stuffed cabbage!”

Ashley looks at her daughter, remembers the day she was born, a tiny red faced miracle. Her hair is wild and her eyes are drooping a little with exhaustion, but she’s radiating huge waves of love and happiness and joy.

“Oh baby,” Ashley says. “You’ve never been more beautiful.”

\----------------

IX.

Veronica sits behind the antique walnut desk in the governor’s office. She’s expecting the phone to ring. These days, she never has to wait too long for what she wants. A small army of aides and assistants and political flacks do their best to anticipate her every whim, to meet all of her needs, solve all of her problems before she even knows she has them.

The phone rings. Once. Twice. She picks up after the third ring.

“Mr. Vice President,” she says, pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”

There’s a full three minutes of excruciating small talk. Fly fishing. The Philadelphia production of Hamilton. The guest list for Huma’s dinner party next week.

“The reason I called, Governor,” he says, coming down to brass tacks at last. “We were wondering if there might be anything we could do for you?”

She smiles. The Rolling Stone cover has raised her profile enough to make the good old boys very nervous. Her successful push for common sense gun control and green energy development has made her a progressive darling. Officiating Spencer’s wedding solidified her status as a fearless advocate for LGBT equality. People are starting to notice. Important people. Fundraisers. Super delegates. College students. 

“An ambassadorship, perhaps? Monaco? Japan?” 

The term limits have them scared. She has two years left of her second term, and they’re shaking in their Italian loafers at the thought of a primary challenge. She’s too old to wait another six years to mount a run for the Oval Office, they both know it. Even if he doesn’t know about the lump in her left breast.

She’s flush with political capital. She leans back in her chair, savoring the moment. She can ask for anything she wants and they’ll have to give it to her.”

“I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the future,” she tells him.

“Mmm?” he says, nervously.

“My legacy.” She can almost hear the flop sweat breaking out on his forehead. “My daughters.”

By the time she hangs up the phone, Melissa’s name will be placed in nomination for the next vacancy on the Third Circuit Court of Appeals, and the party machine will install Spencer as Minority Whip. Within striking distance of Speaker, once they take back the House. Before the current administration leaves office, Mary Drake’s pardon will be signed, her sentence commuted. 

All in a day’s work.

She dials Spencer’s number, confirms she’s coming down to be here for the surgery.

\--------------------------------------

X. 

Pam knocks on the door of Emily and Alison’s house. Sophie answers the door, her violently purple hair sticking up at strange angles.

“Well don’t you look lovely,” Pam says, ruffling a hand through the colorful spikes. Her own hair is snow white and perfectly in place.

“Hi Gram,” she says, loudly. Then she points dramatically towards the kitchen. “Look out,” she mouths. 

There’s a clatter of rattling dishes as Emma stomps out of the kitchen, her face streaked with tears. She doesn’t stop to look at either of them as she storms upstairs and slams her bedroom door so hard it echoes through the house.

“They took away her phone,” Sophie confides, leaning in the doorway. “We might want to reschedule Stitch and Bitch for next week.”

“Tuesday,” Pam nods. “Eight o’clock?”

“Cool,” Sophie agrees. “I’m gonna clear out then. Aunt Spence is in town, I can bike over to their place and hang out till the drama dies down.”

“Do you want a ride?” Pam offers. “I could drive you.”

“Nah,” Sophie shrugs. “I might stop at Sam’s. See if they want to go with me.” 

Sam features in a lot of Sophie’s plans. Pam isn’t quite sure if they’re friends or more than friends. More, she suspects, based on the shy half smile that Sophie gets on her face whenever Sam’s name comes up. 

“I’d love to meet them,” Pam suggests. 

Sophie blushes. “Maybe sometime.” 

Meaning some other time. Pam accepts defeat gracefully, heading into the house as Sophie pedals away.

Alison is sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. She looks up wearily as Pam comes in.

“How much did you hear?” 

“Nothing,” Pam says, filling the kettle with water for tea. A little white lie.

“She hates me,” Alison says, her voice a little shaky.

“She’s a teenager. That means you’re doing your job.”

“She was sexting,” Alison admits. “Or, pre-sexting. No pictures. But the kinds of messages she was typing! She’s sixteen!”

Pam doesn’t respond, just pours the water into two mugs, lets the tea steep. Feels grateful to the bottom of her soul that Emma’s problems don’t involve blackmail and underground bunkers. That her grandkids are blessed with a mundane adolescence. They get to grow up in a house where no cars have ever crashed through the walls. A home where the windows that get replaced because they’re drafty, not because the neighbor’s house exploded.

“It’s a hard age,” she offers.

She takes Alison’s hand, presses it between both of her own. “The girls have good heads and good hearts and they’ll turn out fine. Just like their mothers.”

\--------------------------------------- 

XI.

Ashley is walking out of the monthly staff meeting, her mind on the new upgrade to the reservations system. She smiles in a vague way at any guests in her path, but she has no attention to spare for the tall man in the tailored jacket until she nearly bumps into him.

“Caleb!” she exclaims. She hasn’t seen him in almost six years, since he and Toby opened the first East Coast franchise for their brewery. Ex-Boyfriend Ale is hugely popular, and success agrees with him. He’s still as swarthy and handsome as ever, although she’s surprised to see his stylishly shaggy hair does seems to be receding a little. He has laugh lines crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

He can’t possibly be getting old, she thinks, pulling him into a warm hug. It would be enough to make her feel positively ancient. 

“Are you free for lunch?” he asks. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Someone turns out to be Laura, a gorgeous former WNBA player turned PR exec who looks at him like the sun rises and sets on his shoulders. They have a little black dog and season tickets to the Rockies and a wedding date set for June.

“I wanted to bring her out here,” Caleb says, grinning over his plate of hummus. “I grew up all over, but this was the first place that ever felt like home.”

Ashley smiles fondly at them both. She’ll have to call Hanna later, give her a full report. 

“Well,” she says to Laura. “Welcome to the family.”

\----------------------------------------

XII. 

Ella and Aria are splitting a bottle of wine as they sit at adjoining easels. Ella squints at her painting in progress.

“My cloud looks like an elephant,” she declares.

Aria glances over. Her clouds, of course, are fluffy and perfect. 

“I think it looks more like a whale.”

“Is that better or worse? It still doesn’t belong in the sky.”

“It’s fine. Everyone sees shapes in clouds. It adds character.”

“Hmmph.” 

“Have more wine,” Aria suggests, refilling their glasses. “That’ll fix it.”

Ella nods and takes a sip. She mixes a few colors together, blending the greens. Aria has a little bit of paint in her hair, reminding Ella of the old pink streaks. Her face as she paints is calm and focused. 

She’s been in town more often over the past year. Weeks at a stretch away from her post-divorce mountain retreat. She likes spending time with her old friends. She spends her days hunting through craft stores with Alison for the best scrap booking supplies. Lets Emily talk her into zip lining. Does an episode as a guest judge on Project Runway with Hanna. 

Her nights she spends teaching Jason DiLaurentis to make vegan stir fry, going with him to charity balls and film festivals and gallery openings. He’s out of town this week, but Aria came down to take a few candid shots of Spencer for her campaign website. 

Ella frowns as she scratches out an expanse of scrubby looking grass. It looks disturbingly like an old shag carpet, and it the color has a strange fluorescent yellow highlight to it. 

“How are you doing?” she asks, pouring more wine as she checks on Aria’s progress.

“I’m good,” Aria replies.

Her daughter’s brush is moving with swift assurance. Her sky is already set and drying. A verdant meadow is cropping up under her bristles. Sunlight glints off a small stream, shines brightly on a bed of wildflowers.

There isn’t a single hint of shadow.

\-----------------------------

XIII.

Sophie DiLaurentis Fields is holding her Hollis diploma aloft, posing for a picture with her moms. She’s still in her cap and gown, wearing a stethoscope around her neck, a gift from Pam to celebrate her acceptance to med school.

Barry is throwing a football with Asher Marin Hastings. He’s tall and broad shouldered, with Hanna’s eyes and Spencer’s intensity. 

“Ali has him in her sophomore lit class this year,” Pam tells Ashley. “It makes _her_ feel old.

“Oh, to be fifty again,” Ashley says dramatically. 

The others laugh. Pam still walks everyday, even if it is with a cane these days. Ella’s dyed a blue streak in her gray hair, is due for a knee replacement next month. Veronica’s been teaching government and pre-law at Hollis twice a week, still going strong after beating breast cancer for the third time. 

“That’s why I retired,” Ella says. “It seems like the students get younger every year.”

“To never having to read “The Scarlet Letter” again,” Veronica says, raising her glass.

They clink their glasses together and watch Emma waddle across the lawn towards them. She’s in her seventh month.

“Since I can’t drink,” she says, “I thought maybe I could sit over here, get drunk off the fumes.”

“Have you decided on names yet?” Pam asks her grand daughter. 

Emma smiles. “How would you feel about Wayne and Jess?” 

Pam squeezes her hand, her eyes a little wet. “I think that sounds lovely, dear.”

Emma’s husband calls her over for a picture with Sophie, and they watch as Sophie hams it up, putting the stethoscope to Emma’s belly and making a scream face.

Mona is chatting up Mike and Jasmine over plates of potato salad. 

“She was an excellent commencement speaker,” Veronica comments.

Ashley nods. “ _Defy expectations. Defy definitions. Choose your own adventure. Your destiny is what you make of it._ That’s the Vanderwaal way.”

Hanna and Spencer are standing on the porch talking to Aria and Jason. Spencer’s arms are wrapped around Hanna’s waist, and her brother and Aria are mirroring the same pose.

“They’re house hunting,” Ella confides to Pam.

“Emily told me,” Pam smiles. “Good for them.”

Ashley watches Atticus and Sam splashing in the pool, having totally given up on beating Charlotte and Melissa at water volleyball. 

“It never gets old,” Ashley comments, looking at the yard full of their children and grandchildren. “Seeing them all so happy.”

“It never gets old,” Pam agrees.

“It never gets old,” Veronica repeats, lifting her glass for another toast. “And neither do we.”


End file.
